Darkness
by TruffleWings
Summary: Takes place during Turnabout Goodbyes. Edgeworth lies in his bed pondering his past and his current predicament. Oneshot.


A/N Um, another angst. The timeline here is a bit warped; it was right after the trial that Phoenix accused Yogi when Edgeworth spoke about his nightmare, but due to some mixing-up and confusion, in this story it is the day after the trial that Edgeworth tells Phoenix of his nightmare. …darn. There was also an discrepancy about this taking place in Edgeworth's room, which I pathetically tried to explain in the story. I had already written the first bit before realizing he should have been in the Detention Centre… I only hope that the explanation is… suitable? Passable? Well, just read.

Darkness pressed down on him, icy fingers running up and down his spine. Losing control for just a split-second, the man let out a shiver. A hand shot out from under the bed sheets, groping desperately for something on the bedside table. With a quick fumble, a switch was flicked and a soft yellow light was cast over the large bedroom. Illuminating a large part of the room, the spacious area could now be seen quite clearly.

A red, velvet carpet flowed along the floor, impeccably clean with naught even a stray hair about. Large crimson curtains dominated the right wing of the room, shielding an intricately latticed glass window from view. To the left of the room were shelves upon shelves of bookcases, with materials ranging from law books, some case files, fictional classics and even a Steel Samurai encyclopedia huddled in an inconspicuous corner of a bookcase. Beside the tomes was a smart, dark cabinet that housed clothes—work clothes (his usual burgundy suit), formal wear (again, a deep carmine, but with a more careful attention to detail), sleep clothes, casual wear… every type of clothing for every occasion. An intimidating-looking door glared out at the world, directly opposite the lamp, daring the intruders to enter the room, and then dealing out due punishment for those foolish enough to try. Opposite the door was the king-sized bed beside the table lamp, its silk sheets matching the theme of red majesty that was constant throughout the room, with its four posters tipped in gold leaf and semi-transparent maroon drapes slightly ajar from the sudden emergence of the arm.

This arm belonged to a certain Miles Edgeworth, one with carefully chiseled features and a pale, flawless complexion. It was the 'cool' sort of handsome, the kind that brushes off any compliments and genuinely finds it thoroughly surprising that pretty much the whole of womankind (an over exaggeration, but fairly accurate in account) would helplessly fall for him at a glance.

At the moment, his usually calm demeanor had been broken, quite shamefully, by the piercing dark. Not that it was much better now, he had to admit. Despite the soft, warm glow from the lamp, in some ways the room was more sinister than it had ever been. Shadows lurked in every corner, and with a slight shift in position, they seemed to move, lurking suspiciously and darting around. Plotting. The shadows cast their own web of darkness on what was truly there… what was borne from wishful thinking. And yet, with a little more attention, the truth could be seen with more ease. Painful, perhaps, but the truth nonetheless.

With a shudder, the dark-haired man gritted his teeth and closed his eyes to chase away the memories that had surfaced. After a moment, he reached out for the lamp and switched it off, plunging once more into the bed covers. Edgeworth tried to blank his mind out, to shut off all connections to that memory, to drift to sleep where, possibly, his unconsciousness would grant him some freedom from the guilty chains that now locked his heart away. Then, in a twilight betwixt sleeping and waking, he knew that this was an impossible task and realized that without himself knowing, he had been trying to reason with himself over that incident. Then the thought was snatched away by desperate sleep.

_Dark. Dark and cold, with the stench of fear hanging high in the air. The ground under his feet shook unsteadily and Miles stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Somehow, he knew making the slightest noise was out of the question. His breathing grew shallow and quick, sucking in the empty air, damp and icy. It burned his throat and he soon stopped breathing altogether. A desperate gasp came, suddenly, from the darkness beside him and Miles tried to squint through the black to see the person, as if hoping the dark would flee at his intense glare. All that mattered was that he was not alone. The boy reached out, scraping a strange, foggy smoke as he did so, in an attempt to reach to other occupant. Instead of the insubstantial sensation that he felt in his hand, there was now a definite object within his grip. Cool and comforting, yet somehow repelling, Miles didn't know—He tightened his hold against the familiar, reassuring tool and continued to edge towards the person he was seeking. _

_Something thrust his arm back as a shot rang through the air. The object that he had been clutching so tightly was let loose and flew through the strange place he was in, and though it was black against black, Miles could clearly see its shape. For a second, he didn't comprehend it—refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes. Then a noise sliced through the stunned suspense._

_A heart-wrenching, shrill cry of agony and shock hit Miles and he stumbled back. Such a primal form to express fear, disbelief; such a basic instinct to scream at the sudden pain that the boy was sure had befallen the other person. His hair stood on end as he remained frozen, rooted to the spot as his heart raced unsteadily. The shriek echoed through the vast expanse, but as it died down, Miles could still hear it in his heart, feel it in his blood. And then he was alone once more—somehow he knew the other person was no longer there. He could sense the other's absence. Teeth chattering, with a bloodcurdling scream ringing in his ears, he huddled up into a ball, hugging himself as he struggled to keep the tears within his control. But he couldn't stop them from coming and soon he was crying, crying in loneliness, in fear, in shock, in denial… and all the while, that eerie cry of darkness never ceased to chill him to the bone…_

Edgeworth woke in cold sweat and entangled in a mess of sheets. It seemed sleep had not proven to be any sort of sanctuary as he'd hoped. He knew it wasn't right to shirk from the situation that had probably arisen in… that lift, but the prosecutor couldn't help but cringe both physically and mentally whenever the subject was raised in his mind.

Which meant he was forever living with a knot of unease.

How could he possibly bear to look away from the truth, verified or not? Whether it was truly acknowledged by the law, no matter if it was an accident, Edgeworth knew his heart would never be at rest. Not until he knew the full truth—no matter what it might hold for him. He needed to rid himself of this doubt, of this voice in the corner of his mind, telling him, _you did it, and you know it. Cowardly fool—you have never gotten the courage to face up to it, so you cling to your pathetic lies, your lack of the 'perfect evidence'. Surely, for this sort of thing which you remember so clearly, heard the shriek echo in your mind a thousand times, reviewed incessantly over the scenario, the only possible person who committed that despicable act was you? _

Yanni Yogi didn't do it—no, the oxygen deprivation would have had left him too weak to commit the crime, and though he plead insanity it was only to appease his lawyer. Who else was in that lift? Miles Edgeworth and his father. And Gregory Edgeworth was the victim. _You _know_ you did it. It _is_ just possible that Yogi _did_ do it, but you know you did it._

Edgeworth closed his eyes in protest at the rather foggy memory. Panicking to see the bailiff scuffling with Gregory Edgeworth, he had scrambled to help. His hand fell atop something metal, hard and without thinking, he threw it. Perhaps it was some repressive, psychological defense mechanism, or simply due to oxygen deprivation, but the only clear memory after throwing the gun was of a shocked scream, filled with regret and sorrow.

He could not go on like this, Edgeworth knew. He could no longer hide what he had come to accept as the truth—or at least, a highly probable truth.

He needed to tell someone.

But who?

Who did he trust to not pity or condemn? To take it fairly, to weigh it with an impartial mind? Who could he tell?

And the answer to that was: no one.

His mentor would scoff at the nightmare that had been occupying his thoughts—Manfred von Karma was not known for his comforting skills, not the Edgeworth needed or wanted solace. The esteemed old prosecutor would simply ask Edgeworth to do what he thought wise, and find the perfect evidence, the perfect witness to confirm or refute his guilt. And Edgeworth had not the mindset to find the perfect solution; his mind was far too irrational, too foregone. Besides, the more obvious and prime reason for his not going to the von Karma was, of course, that he was the one prosecuting Edgeworth.

His sister, Franziska, was young, and he did not wish to burden her. Though she might seem tough and cruel on the outside, he knew that she did care and Edgeworth did not feel it particularly brotherly or considerate of him to inform her of his worries. Not only would the situation be very, very awkward, but in its awkwardness, Franziska would probably endeavor to relieve to uncomfortable atmosphere via whipping and an abuse of the word _fool_ or variations thereof.

He was not particularly close to the other prosecutors in the office—no, he had garnered an impressive reputation not to be marred by a nightmare. And his work relations with the detectives weren't exactly friendly either; well, except for Detective Gumshoe, who somehow ended up as the detective in most of Edgeworth's cases. But it was… it couldn't really be considered a friendship, he supposed.

His friends… what friends? He was alone. The only _friends_ he could think of were from a distant past, long forgotten.

Except one of them had drudged his way back into Edgeworth's life.

Phoenix Wright. Edgeworth had been shocked, to say the least, when he'd saw Phoenix as a defense attorney. Who'd have thought? Although he had to admit that it suited his personality—Wright had always been righteous, seeking for justice no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

And with Wright, came that insolent fool from so many years ago… Larry Butz. They used to say: When something smells, it's usually the Butz. Which was pretty much true, except for the murder accusation he got himself wrapped up in. He was proven innocent… by Phoenix Wright.

And as for confiding in either of them… that was preposterous. Larry was an idiot—gullible, naïve… It would not do to tell him, for Edgeworth would probably receive a clumsy comforting instead of an objective view.

Wright wasn't much better. Though he seemed to have grown wiser in the years that passed, his mentality, the ferocious hunger for justice, had not changed. It was not the justice that drove Edgeworth; to put all criminals behind bars, tearing through their claims no matter what it took—no, the passionate goal for justice was instead fuelled by Wright's sheer, outstanding, ridiculous, _blind_ belief in his clients. That they should be acquitted, and saved from an undue punishment. It was… admirable, in a sense, but it was only by dumb luck, Edgeworth was sure, that all his clients turned out to be innocent. So far. In the earliest stage of his career.

No doubt his innocence, or rather, naivety, would be quashed as he gained experience.

And yet, without the faith that guided Wright, where would Edgeworth be now? No other defense attorney would take the Demon Prosecutor's case. No one believed him… except his childhood friend, Wright. And as Miles' defense attorney… was Edgeworth bound to inform Wright of the disturbing nightmares, the doubts that circled his mind?

No.

Wright wouldn't even look into it. He wouldn't even doubt Edgeworth, even if it were accidental.

Because he was stupid.

Stupid enough to trust a long-ago friend. To disregard all evidence, content with the verdict done on Yanni Yogi. Be that as it may, for there was no reason for Phoenix to doubt the guilt of the former bailiff, there was still room for doubt. A lot more room for doubt. And the spiky-haired man wouldn't give it a second thought.

Edgeworth was alone, as he always had been.

Lying awake in the dark as his heart raced with uncertainty, Miles Edgeworth was unsure of how to proceed.

He had to tell someone, to inform them of his guilt. The guilt that had yet to be proven, but would surely be proven because it was true.

And he had to tell them now.

There was a statute of limitations, after all. A little something to keep the cases running, let bygones be bygones, to lay the past to rest. But also a lock that would be forever in place (after a few years after the trial) regardless of whether the whole truth would be revealed just a few minutes after the case was considered completely closed.

But Edgeworth would be damned if he sat back and heard the deadline blow pass him by with a _whoosh_.

Whether or not he could find an impartial listener, so long as he could tell someone before the deadline… A groan escaped the prosecutor as he realized what that meant.

The most suitable candidate in the circumstances was Defense Attorney Phoenix Wright.

A knock on his door.

Edgeworth flicked on his lamplight, and checked the clock. 2AM. Well, it was only to be expected.

He got up and opened the door, already knowing who it would be. Standing outside his bedroom was, as Edgeworth had predicted, Detective Gumshoe.

Being the accused in the case, Edgeworth could hardly be expected to leave the Detention Center. However, also being a von Karma (adopted, but still), he was able to wheedle himself a bargain: days in the Detention Center, nights in his own _comfortable_ bed, though with a police guard who would check in every hour and he could be constantly monitored by a security camera. Edgeworth's bedroom only had one entrance and a large window on the third floor, so they had only needed a squad of three. One outside his door, one under his window, and a superior officer for overall guarding.

Manfred von Karma, though the prosecutor in the case, did not object to this arrangement. Perhaps he could not be bothered, perhaps he merely enjoyed seeing Edgeworth rely on the von Karma name, but nevertheless it was with little protest that Edgeworth managed to secure this arrangement.

"Sir!" the bumbling Detective greeted. "Glad to see you're still here!" Gumshoe immediately looked as though he wanted to take back his words after mindlessly spouting out nonsense from… whatever place he got the nonsense from.

"Detective Gumshoe." Edgeworth inclined his head and stepped from the door to let him inspect the room. As he did so, the prosecutor shook his head at the Detective's incompetence. Gumshoe's 'inspection' was a careless sweep, with little methodology factored into the matter. As much as the Detective believed him innocent, Gumshoe still needed to take this seriously. He was the only one who would knock; of course, the other officers would barge in and do a thorough search. Professional.

But Gumshoe did respect Edgeworth (not that the others didn't) and worked with him on an abnormal number of cases, and would never forsake the simple… _courtesy?_ of knocking on the door. He knew, after all, that Edgeworth would be awake. He questioned why Miles was never asleep, but the blue-eyed prosecutor would not answer.

"Okay, all done!"

"Thank you, Detective Gumshoe." Edgeworth made to close the door, but not before Gumshoe got another word in.

"You should get some sleep, sir."

A pause.

The door was quietly closed, leaving a small thought in the air. _I would, if I could._

Now struggling to distract himself once more, Edgeworth sought to find another topic on which he could ponder. It didn't take long—the obvious course of action was to evaluate his current situation: a murder suspect in a case that tied with another… the DL-6 incident. Wright had managed to turn the tables in what Edgeworth wasn't certain if it were mindless blundering or true tactics, but he cast suspicion on a totally different player; the boathouse owner.

Another shadowy figure from a shadowy past.

It was no use trying to distract himself, Edgeworth finally conceded. Everything about this case, everything that was happening to him _in the present_ was linked to that day so many years ago—the day that he had strove to put away dusty corner of his consciousness, now dredged back kicking and screaming to the present. Along with it came a nightmare. A nightmare of his own guilt.

It was all interconnected in the most disgusting way. Everything, it seemed, in his life had been piling up and only now did they strive to engulf him, to strike him down all in one fell swoop. And if he didn't do something about it, they would succeed. DL-6, long-forgotten classmates, a famous adoption, the rumors of his credibility, his reputation…

Once again, Edgeworth turned the light off.

He knew what to do. He had to tell Wright. As soon as possible. _After the trial_, he told himself.

Yes, tomorrow's trial would be a tough one. Not for him as a suspect; for him as a witness in the DL-6 incident. Was it really Yogi he had seen on the boat? But the night had been foggy, dark and full of turmoil… He could not possibly remember. Miles did not even know if, on that night, he had gotten a good look at the other person on the boat. All he recalled was a coat—Hammond's coat. He had nothing but circumstantial and physical evidence collected to go on about; his memories were vague and even they could not be trusted. He _supposed_ he had done it. But Wright had, through some weird, twisted path, proven that he had not. Or that he probably had not.

What was happening at present, he decided, was not important. Not as important as resolving the issues of long ago—a harder task, especially since he had almost no evidence or recollection to speculate about anything. Just a dim, fleeting memory and a truckload of circumstance. It was impossible to know if it was he or Yogi who committed the crime—but it had to be one of them. No one else had been in the lift, and the gunshot had rang out when the lift had stopped, locked in the shaft with no one to enter or exit.

And yet Edgeworth had a feeling in his gut that perhaps all was not what it seemed. He also thought that Yogi had not committed the crime—just seeing him on the stand, hearing his pleas of innocence… The guilty party usually confessed. Usually. That didn't mean this couldn't have been an exception.

It was useless pondering over the dark issues, but like an itch that never goes away, Edgeworth just couldn't leave it alone.

_There is nothing I can do but wait. Wait for tomorrow and the things that it will bring. Revelations, confessions… the truth. All I can do is wait; wait, and hope._

But even as Miles Edgeworth thought the thought, he lay awake in the darkness, unable to sleep. One reason was that his heart was still at unrest; the other was that he did not wish to fall prey to any more nightmares.

_Wait, just wait. Sleep on it._

He closed his eyes and breathed evenly, calming himself. Behind closed lids, images flashed through his mind,

_There is only one truth; and that shall be reached in the trial tomorrow—patience._

Edgeworth wasn't sure if the truth was what he wanted.

_And yet, the truth is the only thing there is._

The prosecutor did not sleep; he could not. And all through the night, his mind was active in the darkness, pondering.

_A crime is a crime. A verdict is a verdict. A truth is _the _truth. And that is all there is to it._

A/N My fics are getting shorter and shorter. Hm, my first three fics are angst stories about prosecutors. I should turn it into a trilogy or something, hohoho. This took a while to write; I guess it's because I'm not as much of a big fan of Edgey as Klavier or Godot, though I still like him a lot. Please R&R, whether it be constructive criticism or a glowing compliment! (And, of course, a combination of both.)


End file.
